


Allies

by Amethystina



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: (like you wouldn't believe), And the verbal sparring, Because Elves, But he sort of learns, Fluff, It's all very chaste in the end though, Look at all the UST, M/M, Slow Burn, Thranduil Doesn't Know How to Person, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:51:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4289733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethystina/pseuds/Amethystina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard is unsure what to make of King Thranduil. The Elvenking might be regal and graceful beyond compare, but he is also cold and ruthless. Bard cannot comprehend why anyone would be so set on declaring war over a handful of gems, heedless of the lives they might lose.</p><p>But as the war for the Dwarven treasure draws nearer, Bard finds himself spending more time in the Elvenking's presence, and it would be a lie to say that he is not affected by King Thranduil's beauty — or the tension building between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Negotiations

**Author's Note:**

> WELL. This came out of the left field. I saw the movie months ago, read a couple of fanfics, and just had to get this out of my system. This fic is more or less entirely based on the movie — except that I call Bard the Bowman instead of the Bargeman (because it has a nicer ring to it) and some smaller trivia and facts — and... yeah. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I know for a fact that I had fun doing it.
> 
> This was betaed by [CarpeDentum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CarpeDentum) (who is in love with all the UST) and [surgicalstainless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/surgicalstainless) (who hasn't even seen the movies, but did an amazing job all the same). Thanks to you both <3
> 
> Artsy stuff is made by me, and you can find my writing Tumblr [HERE](http://amethystinawrites.tumblr.com)

 

* * *

 

As untrained as Bard might be in the finer arts of diplomacy and politics, he held no illusions whatsoever of being anything more than a mean to an end in the eyes of the Elvenking. Whatever courtesy he was shown was only to ensure that he remained partial to King Thranduil during the unfolding dispute, rather than any actual concern for Bard and his people.

The words they had exchanged when the Elves had arrived with supplies proved as much, since they had more to do with King Thranduil's greed than saving starving refugees. To go to war over a handful of gems was appalling, no matter how valuable they supposedly were. Bard would do well to remember that King Thranduil cared very little for the lives of Men — or those he had to manipulate in order to emerge victorious.

It was not normally in Bard's nature to be so harsh and suspicious after such a short acquaintance, but anyone could see that the Elvenking was as cold and ruthless as he was old and beautiful.

That was to say, very much so.

Bard was no fool. He might be a simple bargeman, but he knew more than enough about calculating rulers to be wary, especially since King Thranduil executed his schemes with far more grace and cunning than the Master of Lake-town had. Their motivations were not entirely different either, yet Bard felt less inclined to despise the Elvenking on sight.

Still, Bard knew better than to trust him.

He wanted to — they were in desperate need of allies — but Bard knew that he was nothing more than a pawn on a much bigger board than he could possibly comprehend. And a low value one, at that. He had no disciplined, trained armies at his command, nor did he want any. Even without them he was welcomed in the command tent and treated as an ambassador for his people, if not a king in his own right.

It unnerved him to have such a burden placed on his shoulders, but at the same time he felt hesitant to push it onto someone else's. Alfrid was one of the few of a higher position who had survived the wrath of the dragon, and he would surely only make matters worse. If not by betraying his own people and selling them out for whatever amount of gold he might get his hands on, then by insulting the Elvenking with his sickeningly false flattery.

So Bard might be the best choice to speak for the people of Lake-town after all, even if he felt painfully out of place in King Thranduil's lavish tent, facing a creature older than Bard could possibly comprehend. He felt filthy, clumsy, and unrefined in comparison, and disliked the fact that it was in all probability true.

It was therefore a small relief that they were there to discuss diplomacy, rather than whatever Bard might be lacking when placed opposite the ancient Elvenking. If there was one thing Bard excelled at it was prioritising. It became second nature when you were the sole provider for your family.

Bard's main concern was not the old dispute between Dwarves and Elves, nor did he seek revenge on Thorin's company for having awoken the dragon. What he wanted was to ensure that his people survived the coming winter, despite the pain and grief they had already suffered as Smaug burned their city to ashes around them.

He only wanted to save his people — to keep his children, friends, and kinsmen alive.

King Thranduil had other plans.

Bard had never met a ruler so set on war, and could not help but wonder if it was partly due to boredom that the Elvenking was willing to go that far. Granted, Bard's attempts at negotiation with the Dwarves had failed, leaving them with very few options, but he still found the decision reckless.

How many unnecessary deaths would they be facing? Their opponents might only be a handful of Dwarves, but a siege always involved more casualties on the attacking side, and waiting to starve them out was not an option with winter already on their doorstep. Not to mention that it was only a matter of time before the news spread and more armies arrived to lay claim to the treasure.

It would have been so much easier if Thorin had only kept his word, instead of allowing greed and spite to dictate his actions. The Elvenking was no better — ruthless in his decisions and blind to advice, even when it came from a wizard. Only the Halfling's gift had managed to stay King Thranduil's eagerness to attack Erebor, and Bard doubted that would last for long. There were no guarantees that Thorin would accept their terms either, consumed by the gold as he was.

In the middle of this stood Bard, feeling out of his depth and desperate to keep as many lives safe as possible, no matter their race. If only Thorin and King Thranduil would have shared his priorities. It was frustrating to be dealing with two rulers so set on war, for no other reason than their pride.

Bard knew better than to voice his opinions out loud, however, lest he wanted to lose the one ally he did have. Without King Thranduil's help Bard and his people would have starved, and he did well to remember that. He was of the impression that while King Thranduil was both poised and dignified, he could also be quite fickle.

Or maybe _petty_ was the word Bard was looking for?

Bard pushed the thought aside and continued to pace restlessly inside the tent King Thranduil had set up as their command station. It was hardly dignified to show that amount of distress but Bard was long past caring. He ignored the pale gaze that followed his progress; if staring amused the Elf then Bard would let him.

There was little left for Bard to do that night. Those strong enough to carry weapons had been armed, armoured, and taught rudimentary lessons in fighting before allowed rest. It was the best they could do with their limited time frame, and the people were still weary after Smaug's attack and the march to Dale.

Bard's children were asleep, watched over by the others, and he knew that he would do well to follow their example. If only he could find enough peace to rest. The hours were slipping through his fingers and he felt absolutely powerless. There might be a war soon and he shuddered at the thought of how many lives might be lost.

Had they not sacrificed enough already?

The Arkenstone lay on the table where the Hobbit had left it, shining brighter than the flickering torches. Bard felt as if the stone was mocking him somehow, and he had half a mind to cover it. He was worried about Thorin's reaction upon seeing the gem; if he was lost to the dragon sickness he would not take kindly to being extorted.

"What troubles you?"

Bard almost flinched at the deep, melodious voice — a smooth and rich timbre, so different from the harsher voices of Men. He wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to a sound that seemed so otherworldly and foreign to his ears.

He stopped his pacing, turning to face the Elvenking.

"Do you honestly have to ask, my lord?" Bard made a poor attempt to keep the frustration out of his voice. That frustration only grew at the look of amusement on King Thranduil's face.

"It seems that I do. You are awfully restless." King Thranduil had barely moved for the past hour, sitting on his throne-like chair while Bard paced, his long fingers wrapped elegantly around a goblet of wine he had yet to taste.

They had both been surprised by the Hobbit's contribution to the negotiations, but ever since the wizard and Halfling had left the Elvenking's expression had reverted back to the impassive one he seemed to favour, with an added hint of artful boredom.

It was bewildering that an expression so juvenile could look so regal.

"I am restless because of what awaits us at dawn," Bard bit out. He gestured towards the table and the priceless gem lying on it. "Even with the Arkenstone, we might be looking at war."

King Thranduil's gaze never wavered from Bard. He seemed uninterested in the Arkenstone, in a way that was unmistakably calculated. As if the stone was something to avoid — something tainted. Bard could very well imagine that it was, even if he felt no pull towards it himself, except what it might bring them if they managed to negotiate an exchange.

He wished that he had more hope in that outcome.

"You seem very reluctant to fight such a war," King Thranduil remarked, with the barest hint of curiosity.

"And you far too keen," Bard countered sharply. He knew that he was but a small step from insulting the Elvenking, but the events of the day — the exhaustion, frustration, and helplessness — were catching up with him.

Not to mention that he could still smell the dragon fire on his skin, haunting his every step.

"Without the war and the treasure you will not be able to feed your people, Master Bowman. Out of the options we are given it is the most beneficent one." King Thranduil's voice was calm and steady — almost lazy. It made the syllables roll from his lips with an effortless grace.

"Fight a war to save lives," Bard summarised curtly, not hiding his distaste.

He felt no need to cultivate his speech with unnecessary embellishments. The Elvenking had already accepted him as ambassador — knowing full well that Bard was of humble means despite his noble family history — and since that was the case whatever words Bard chose would have to be enough. He had never been trained in the art of diplomacy, or how to sweeten his words for the sake of gaining favours. He was rather proud of that. He valued honesty much higher than lies spun by a skilful politician.

King Thranduil graced him with a smile calculated to show superiority rather than spread joy, but there was an unmistakable hint of amusement — maybe even interest — to it as well.

"Yes," the Elvenking drawled, somehow managing to make even that seem like an art, "a most grievous decision, but one a king at times must make."

King Thranduil looked everything but distressed at the thought of the coming war, sitting perfectly poised on his throne with his fancy robes spilling out in graceful, weightless folds around him.

Bard cast his eyes downward, slowly shaking his head.

"I am no king, my lord," he replied, making no attempt to soften the sharpness in his voice. He had never asked for that title, and nor did he want it. He was unsuitable to lead these people, but would do so — protect and shelter them, to the best of his abilities — until they found a better candidate.

"Your people seem to disagree, Master Bowman."

Bard met the Elvenking's icy, blue gaze, holding it firmly despite the coldness he could feel radiating from it.

"Aye, they do, but I have lived my life as one of them, toiling in the very same mud and dirt as they. I know nothing of diplomacy or ruling. What manner of king does that make me?"

"One chosen, rather than born," King Thranduil replied, putting aside his goblet of wine. Bard's stood forgotten on the table, not far from the shimmering Arkenstone. King Thranduil offered another smile, this one holding an edge of fascination. "I can assure you that your kind is much rarer."

"But not necessarily better," Bard countered, despite knowing that King Thranduil might in fact have intended it as a compliment.

It seemed to amuse the Elvenking that Bard was arguing the point so fiercely. Bard imagined that he must be an entertaining distraction to one as old as King Thranduil — but also inconsequential and fleeting. The thought left a bitter taste at the back of Bard's tongue, completely unrelated to the wine he had abandoned over an hour ago.

He had seen first-hand the effects the sweet, Elvish wine had had on the late Master of Lake-town and on his ability to care for his people. As a result, Bard had very little trust for the drink.

"I can never be a king in the sense and capacity that you are, my lord," Bard said after a short silence, meeting King Thranduil's gaze. He was surprised by the complexity of emotions he saw there. Most of the time the Elvenking seemed carved out of stone — beautiful, exquisite marble, but stone none the less — always perfectly composed, and all the more cold and ruthless for it.

Now his smile was amused enough to almost seem genuine, even if it was also slightly mocking.

"Well, you can hardly be blamed for _that_ , can you?"

The arrogance was astounding, but not the least bit unfounded. Bard let out a sound reminiscent of a chuckle, although he was reluctant to admit it.

"No, I guess not," he agreed.

His gaze wandered unbidden towards the Arkenstone — the crown jewel of the King Under the Mountain. The fleeting moment of lightheartedness melted away; there would be no need for kings, if they could not survive the winter.

King Thranduil rose soundlessly from his throne, the movement drawing Bard's attention back to the Elf. He could not for the life of him understand how it was possible for a being to always appear so perfect. King Thranduil's robes draped elegantly and not a single strand of hair was out of place. Even his steps were unnaturally graceful, the movement so smooth that it appeared fluid.

It was vaguely unsettling to watch and Bard had to fight an urge to step back when the Elvenking walked past. They were not nearly close enough to touch, but Bard felt awkward and crude in comparison. For the first time in days Bard smelled something other than singed flesh and dragon fire. It was difficult to put a name on the scent, however, even if he knew who it belonged to.

It was clean yet sharp, like a snowy spring morning — cold despite its purity.

"The stone will be kept safe overnight, and at dawn you will carry it as we ride to negotiate with the Dwarves." There was no mistaking the contempt in King Thranduil's voice when he spoke of the Dwarves, but Bard's attention latched on to the other part of that sentence.

"Me, my lord?" he asked, baffled.

Surely something so valuable should not be put in his hands? Despite what King Thranduil said Bard was no king, and while they were allies he held very little influence or power. Their alliance was clearly more of a burden for the Elves than a blessing, and Bard had no intention of jeopardising that by being presumptuous.

The look King Thranduil gave him as he slowly walked up to the table was gracious, despite Bard having expected it to be taunting, or even worse — patronising. Bard stepped closer without knowing why, until they were standing on either side of the table, the Arkenstone between them.

"It would be my absolute pleasure to see the look on Oakenshield's face if I were to bring it to his doorstep, but I think it would be wiser for the sake of our negotiations if I did not. He would not take kindly to my gloating." The Elvenking's smile was knowing, with a tinge of teasing. "I am able to think beyond my sense of pride and personal enjoyment when necessary."

Bard stiffened ever so slightly before nodding. The comment was clearly meant to show that his opinions concerning King Thranduil's arrogance had not passed unnoticed, and he knew better than to deny them. The surprise was that the Elvenking did not seem the least bit insulted. If anything he looked intrigued, as if he was fascinated by the prospect of someone being bold enough to accuse him of being conceited.

Bard knew that it had to be far from the first time, but maybe the difference was that Bard did it not to strengthen his own position or because he thought himself better — he just genuinely found King Thranduil lacking in compassion and humility. Neither of those were traits necessary to be king, but Bard had no doubt that one might be a _better_ king if they were embraced.

The silence lingered, Bard staring unseeing at the table between them. He had never quite understood how difficult it was to make decisions in the capacity of a ruler. Some were easy — the practical things, like salvaging what they could from the burning town and finding shelter. But to ask his people to face a war? To expect them to die because of an order he gave?

Bard never wanted that. But King Thranduil was correct in that it was their most viable option at this point, especially since Bard knew that without the Elven army he stood little chance of saving his people. He had even fewer options than King Thranduil, and they both knew it. He had to agree to the Elvenking's terms, since Bard's own resources were sorely lacking.

"Do you always carry so much weight?" King Thranduil asked curiously, as if Bard was some peculiar creature he was trying to unravel. It was probably not meant as an insult, but it certainly felt like one.

"When it concerns survival, yes."

"Survival is what we will go to war for — the survival of your people," King Thranduil said.

Were Elves always this talkative? Bard had been told that they were elusive and distant, reluctant to get involved with the outside world, and especially with matters of Men. The Elvenking, in contrast, was surprisingly keen, all too quick to ask Bard confusing questions.

"Survival is always a struggle," Bard replied, trying not to point out that it seemed less so for the Elves. They had fought their wars long ago, Bard knew that much, but they seemed almost complacent now, and set in their own ways. "Before I struggled to feed my children, and now I struggle to feed my people. I am not unaccustomed to the grim choices one has to make in order to live another day, but war — that will bring only death."

King Thranduil looked thoughtful. One pale, graceful hand reached out to wander along the edge of the table.

"But also life. Without this war, how will you feed them?" King Thranduil's blue gaze was coaxing, but Bard knew better than to surrender. The Elf was merely trying to amuse himself by manipulating those he thought easily swayed. "Think of your children, Master Bowman."

Bard felt a flare of defiance.

"As you think of yours?" Bard countered, raising his eyebrow in a challenge that was probably unwise. The Elvenking stiffened and Bard leaned forward, bracing his hands against the table between them. "Your son is a soldier, is he not? A war like this one would only endanger him, not protect him. You have no need of treasure to survive the winter, do you? So why place your son in needless danger?"

The silence hung heavy between them. Bard refused to succumb to King Thranduil's piercing stare, his own gaze steady. The Elvenking might be wiser, fairer, and a more experienced ruler, but he seemed less versed in how to care and love. Maybe he had forgotten over the years, or maybe he had never known — Bard could not be certain — but he was not going to let his children be used against him. Not so blatantly and by someone who barely seemed to know what being a father meant.

"Are you implying that I do not care for my son?" The steel was back in King Thranduil's voice — the very same one that had assured Bard that it was not for his or his kinsmen's sake that the Elves offered aid, but to right wrongs committed against them.

"I am merely pointing out that you should not use other people's children as tools for your manipulations, unless you want the same to happen to your own." Bard made sure to maintain his calm, his tone unthreatening. "I am well aware of what might happen to my children whether I go to war or not, but most of those discussions are fruitless at this point." Bard's gaze flickered to the Arkenstone, shining brilliantly between them. "The decision lies with Thorin."

King Thranduil tilted his head to the side, ever so slightly. The look he gave Bard was searching — maybe even a little amazed.

"Are you attempting to teach me a lesson, Master Bowman?" The patronising edge made it obvious that King Thranduil found the thought to be absolutely preposterous.

Bard calmly met the Elvenking's gaze.

"Maybe I am," Bard replied, fully expecting the scoff that followed. It could almost have been a chuckle, if Elf-lords knew how to do such a thing.

"What could you possibly teach me?" To King Thranduil's credit, he did seem intrigued underneath all the condescension.

Bard smiled. "You may be old, King Thranduil, but that in no way means that you have heard and seen all there is to hear and see. There are things even you have yet to experience."

This seemed to give the Elvenking pause, but he merely raised an eyebrow rather than grace it with a verbal reply.

"You are an ageless being," Bard continued, "but despite your many years you are far from all-knowing. Never belittle the wisdom that others might hold, for it may very well be more vast than your own."

"Says the bowman to the king."

The words were clearly meant to be a mocking reprimand — a reminder of the size of the rift between them and their difference in stature. King Thranduil must have forgotten that he had spoken of Bard as being a chosen king mere minutes ago.

Bard held no grudge against the Elvenking — they hardly knew each other well enough for that — but he had too much integrity and pride to simply surrender. It was reflex by then, to challenge unfairness and arrogance after so many years living under the poor rule of the Master.

Bard was known to be a troublemaker for a reason.

"Says the man who has slain a dragon," Bard retaliated. He would never claim fame because of it, but it was definitely worth mentioning as one of his more noteworthy accomplishments. "Says the man who has fathered three children and buried his wife." He straightened, even if a part of him felt like he should be bowing instead. "My existence might be insignificant compared to yours, _my lord_ , but I have seen and done things not even you have. You cannot measure a man's worth by the years he has lived."

"Then how do you suggest it be measured?" The tone was not outright patronising, but close enough that Bard suspected that King Thranduil thought very little of his opinions.

Bard swallowed down the brief stab of insult; it was far too reminiscent of hurt to sit well with him.

"By the things he does. His accomplishments and achievements."

It was a beautiful notion, and Bard knew that it would never become reality — not with Elves, Dwarves, and wizards to outlive him by centuries — but that did not mean that he wished for it any less. It would mean fewer rulers like the Master, and hopefully fewer wars.

Bard was startled by King Thranduil's soft laugh, the sound so delightful that he paused involuntarily, if only for a second.

"You are bold, Dragonslayer." King Thranduil slowly circled the table, pinning Bard firmly in place with that sharp, blue gaze of his. "Your morals and ideas are naïve and innocent, yet remarkably insightful."

Bard automatically turned until they stood facing each other, mere feet apart. He could feel his heartbeat quicken, trying not to speculate as to why.

"It is most intriguing." King Thranduil's voice was lower now — gentle and captivated.

"I..." Bard was unsure of what he had intended to say, his words trailing off before they even began. He blamed it on the look in King Thranduil's eyes. It was searching and curious, as if he was attempting to understand something marvellous.

" _You_ are intriguing." There was a hint of astonishment underneath King Thranduil's certainty.

Bard swallowed, trying desperately to calm his rampant heartbeat. The close proximity made him feel unaccountably nervous, and all too aware of that crisp, pristine scent that reminded him of spring snow. There was a flutter of something warm and excited in Bard's gut — he seemed helpless to stop it.

"Hardly," he managed hoarsely, embarrassed by the pleased look on the Elvenking's face. Bard wished he knew what King Thranduil was after, but it was impossible to glean it from his expression.

"Were you not the one who said to measure a man's worth by what he has accomplished?" King Thranduil challenged.

"Aye, but I—"

"Would exclude yourself? You are far too humble." It was only through sheer force of will that Bard managed to meet King Thranduil's gaze. The Elf was only slightly taller but seemed to tower nonetheless — impressive and regal where Bard was ragged and unrefined. "A man who still smells of the dragon fire he extinguished should surely be more confident."

Bard suspected it was meant as a compliment, but there was a clench in his chest all the same. He felt an urge to apologise for smelling so foul in the presence of royalty, even though he had attempted to clean off the worst of it. The acrid stench still clung stubbornly to his skin and hair, and while he had worries of higher priority, he still felt embarrassed.

He cleared his throat and averted his gaze, feeling uncomfortable enough to pull his hands behind his back, as if to make sure that he would not accidentally touch the Elvenking. Bard would hate to soil something so close to perfection.

It would be wrong to say that he was ashamed, but he did feel inadequate. It was one thing to boldly question injustice and quite another to be lacking as a person.

"I did what I had to do in order to save my family, nothing more. I want no glory or fame."

"You truly mean that." It was the note of disbelief that made Bard look back up, meeting King Thranduil's gaze. "You are being honest."

"Yes, of course I am." Bard frowned in confusion.

Why would King Thranduil doubt his sincerity?

Bard almost flinched back when King Thranduil moved closer, so seamless and fluent that Bard could barely tell how many steps he had taken. Amazement was shining in the Elvenking's eyes.

"You are quite remarkable," King Thranduil said, so softly that it was more of a distracted mumble.

A shiver travelled down Bard's spine and he had to remind himself how to breathe. His throat was so dry that he could barely swallow, and it was difficult to say if his heart was racing because of fear or anticipation — but he suspected the latter. He dared not speculate on what the Elvenking was up to, but the look in his eyes made Bard want to shift closer, as if yielding to some instinctive call.

The air felt thick and Bard struggled not to let his focus slip. It was surprisingly difficult not to be distracted by the brightness of those pale blue eyes, or that pure, tantalising scent.

"Maybe you are right, Master Bowman." King Thranduil's voice still held its melodious timbre, but his stern expression was softening with wonder. "There might be things I have yet to see and experience."

Bard knew that he should probably feel self-conscious or move out of the way when King Thranduil raised his hand, but there was no such urge. He simply remained where he was, looking up at the Elvenking without knowing what to reply — or if he should even make one.

The first brush of fingertips against his chin seemed to burn, sending a flare of warmth sizzling under his skin. It was shocking that such a simple touch could feel so overwhelming. Bard barely dared to breathe as King Thranduil traced the line of his jaw, a tiny smile quirking the Elf's lips when he encountered the rough texture of Bard's beard.

Bard's thoughts were spinning, trying to make sense of what was happening. He had always heard that Elves were reluctant to touch, even with those they held dear. This — the captivated, curious exploration — could not be within the realms of common Elvish practice.

In fact, it was far from common practice even among Men. For all its innocence, the touch was still undeniably intimate.

Bard swallowed thickly as those fingertips wandered down along his throat, leaving a searing trail of warmth in their wake. The touch was light, almost gentle, and achingly sensual. Bard could feel his gut tighten with a response unsuitable for the Elvenking, but he was not sure how to suppress it.

He might not actually _want_ to.

How many years was it since he had last felt like this? It was inappropriate, for a number of reasons, but he welcomed it for the warmth it brought — the stir of breathless, heady desire. By the looks of it, he was not the only one. King Thranduil's entire focus was on the path his fingers were travelling, as if exploring the soft, vulnerable skin at the base of Bard's throat was the most intriguing task imaginable.

Bard could not help wondering when the Elvenking had last looked so enthralled by something; his previous disinterest and nonchalance was nowhere to be seen.

Was Bard allowed to feel flattered for being the cause, however unbelievable and confusing the situation was? He was fairly certain that someone like King Thranduil rarely allowed himself to show such unmasked interest, even if it was difficult to determine why he did.

Bard was reluctant to move, not wanting to break the spell. He feared that it would make King Thranduil retreat, and he would rather not ask himself why that would be such a terrible thing.

He could only remain motionless for so long, however. Bard's breath trembled when he inhaled, his lungs barely drawing in enough air to function, but it was enough to disrupt the perfect stillness. The movement jostled King Thranduil back to the present.

Their gazes met. Bard had no idea what could be seen in his own eyes, but he was left feeling bare and vulnerable. The surprising flare of yearning had to be obvious, even if he had never thought he would feel it — least of all towards the Elvenking. But the tension in the air was undeniable, like a living, breathing entity, whispering along Bard's skin.

A second passed — a loaded moment where neither of them moved — before King Thranduil pulled his hand back and retreated a step. His expression hardened back into the cold, impenetrable mask he usually wore, except for the slight curl of disgust on his lips.

Bard felt like he had been doused with cold water, the tender, breathless moment shattering into sharp shards of rejection. Humiliation rushed through him and only by stiffening his spine did he kept himself from succumbing to it.

There was no denying that it hurt, though.

"Return to your children, Master Bowman. Get some rest." King Thranduil was walking back towards his throne, as if the moment had never happened — or at the very least was already forgotten — his posture impeccable and graceful. "At dawn we will speak with the Dwarves."

Bard knew a dismissal when he heard one. His heart was still thundering in his chest but this time it was from shame and anger, for allowing himself to think that the touch had been anything but a brief lapse of judgement on King Thranduil's part. Or perhaps it was due to simple curiosity? Either way, it was clear that Bard had been found wanting, which should not have come as a surprise.

He was mortal, while King Thranduil had lived longer than Bard could comprehend — and would live on for thousands of years after Bard's death.

What could he possibly have to offer someone like that?

He bowed his head slightly, not meeting King Thranduil's gaze, despite how cowardly that made him feel.

"Yes, my lord." His voice was without inflection and he did not linger long enough to wait for a reply. He had already had his fair share of disappointment that evening and quickly left the tent before any more could be bestowed upon him.

He cursed himself for being so foolish. How could he, even for a second, have believed that the touch had been anything but a mistake? Bard could not compare to any Elf, be they king or not, and yet he felt wounded at the rejection.

What had he expected?

Not that Bard knew why King Thranduil had touched him so intimately if his intention was to deny it later. It made very little sense — like so many other things the Elvenking did. Only this had the unfortunate side effect of leaving Bard humiliated and hurt, but that was partly his own fault.

He must have lost his mind. He could feel the lingering touch of King Thranduil's fingers, warm like a brand against his skin. It was preposterous, plain and simple. An Elf and a Man? King Thranduil would never stoop that low and Bard knew that. He was hardly worthy.

It was surprisingly difficult to extinguish the tiny flare of budding hope and excitement, but he managed. By the time he reached the haphazard Lake-town encampment he had convinced himself to forget about that tender, breathless moment. He had other things to worry about.

Even as he checked on his children, to make sure that they were still safe and peacefully asleep, he kept telling himself that he only had himself to blame.

Bard swallowed as he stroked Tilda's hair, her tiny body burrowed down under one of the soft blankets the Elves had brought. Bard carefully breathed through the clench in his chest, smiling weakly.

He was such a fool.

 


	2. War

 

* * *

 

Thranduil found no joy in war. Despite what was said about his ruthlessness, he valued his people's lives and would not endanger them unnecessarily. Declaring war on a handful of Dwarves hardly seemed like a big risk to undertake, but he had underestimated the lure of the treasure and how quickly news of the dragon's death would spread.

He had not anticipated the war he eventually faced, and he could admit that his arrogance was partly to blame. Once the battle was fought and he found himself at Ravenhill, he could admit that the wizard's warning should have been heeded, as it would have made them focus on the real enemy. They could have fortified the city and protected the people within.

Thranduil might not care that much about the lives of Men, fleeting and insignificant as they were, but he had attempted to defend them nonetheless. When the choice had been between remaining on the battlefield with the Dwarves or preventing a massacre of women and children at the hands of the Orcs, it was hardly worth calling a decision. They might not be his people but Thranduil was, contrary to popular belief, not heartless. He was cunning and far from generous, but not nearly cold enough to allow innocents to be slaughtered.

The thought of Bard's children being amongst the dead had undeniably affected his decision. To claim otherwise would have shown a deep lack of self-awareness — and been an outright lie.

Bard himself was a bewilderingly difficult to define, despite his simplicity. He was a mortal who, unlike his forefather, had managed to slay the dragon, yet wanted nothing in return except for an assurance that his people would remain safe. It was almost foolishly innocent, but no less intriguing for it.

Thranduil had always thought Men to be greedy and twisted — corrupted by their own short lifespans, to the point where they wanted everything in the few years they did have. They scrambled to find purpose, unseemly in their quest for recognition and glory.

Bard the Dragonslayer was none of that. He was rough, simplistic, and hairy, like most mortals, but there was also defiance and honour, and the smell of dragon fire — all of which should be admired. Bard held a certain fortitude that could only have come from living a harsh life. Thranduil disliked being questioned and criticised, but he found that when it came from a man who had so little, it mattered more — it held weight for the sheer honesty of it.

Bard had no reason to lie. If the Bowman wanted recognition he needed but to accept the crown the people of Lake-town were so desperate to offer him. Thranduil had thought him sanctimonious at first, when Bard claimed to want none of the renown he had fairly earned, but it had turned out to be the truth.

Thranduil was impressed by the man's integrity, even if he also found him to be annoyingly guileless — and quite frustrating in general. Men were not usually so sincere, and Thranduil had never before been so intrigued by the brilliance of a mortal. He marvelled at the complexity of Bard's nature, since he was humble despite the bravery and strength of character that seemed to come naturally to him.

Naïve was also a word that came to mind, considering Bard's pure, unrealistic values.

Yet the man held fast, in the face of hordes of Orcs and a war he could not prevent. Had Thranduil had less pride he might have felt regret at how he had steered them down this path, despite Bard's admirable attempts to convince him otherwise.

Now the only thing he regretted was the death and destruction the war had brought upon them, and how his intentions for a brief conflict with the Dwarves had turned into a battle of bigger proportions than either of them had anticipated.

Pulling back his troops was less selfish than both Mithrandir and Tauriel believed, but undeniably cruel none the less — as were her words to him.

It was not until after the battle itself, when he had seen his son walk away in self-chosen exile and Tauriel's grief reawakened the sorrow of his own heart, that he truly understood what she had meant.

Her tears for the Dwarf were not unlike the ones Thranduil had shed for his wife, in the quiet of his own chambers when the sorrow became too much. But that had been centuries ago.

When had he stopped mourning? When had he stopped feeling?

When had he stopped _loving_?

He had been cynical in the face of Tauriel's love for the Dwarf, for how could she possibly love something so ugly? Now Thranduil wondered who was the ugly one, when his arrogance and narrow-mindedness had driven his own son away. Legolas leaving would have happened eventually, even if Tauriel had not loved another.

Legolas had always been spirited enough to insist on walking his own path, and Thranduil had never tried to understand him — only control him. He had disapproved of Legolas' affections for Tauriel, but it was far from the first wedge he had driven between them.

What did he know of love?

He still remembered the feeling, but as he stood there in the ruins on Ravenhill he began to realise that he had forgotten what it was actually like to _be_ in love. What he remembered was not the joy of it — the comfort and the bliss — but the pain that came after.

He knew Tauriel's desperation all too well, but also why she smiled through her tears. Knowing that it was real — for however short a moment they had been given — was worth the suffering. The pain and the heartache would live with her forever, yet she would embrace it, knowing that she had at least allowed herself to feel the love to begin with.

It was startling to realise that he did not share her strength.

For all his pride and dignity he had succumbed to the grief, wallowing in bitterness rather than accept it, like Tauriel. He had become cynical and aloof, belittling those foolish enough to love. He had believed himself wiser than them, but only succeeded in proving his own limits. He had forsaken love, in favour of coldness and indifference.

But it would be wrong to say that he was incapable of feeling.

What he had experienced the night before — the stir of long forgotten emotions born from his curious exploration of Bard's skin — was proof enough of that. It had been unexpected, not to mention inappropriate, but the intricate puzzle that Bard the Bowman presented had sparked something Thranduil had almost thought to be lost.

He was fascinated. He was curious. He was even a tiny bit awed.

To find that a man — so unrefined and painfully mortal — could shine so brightly was nothing short of a mystery. One Thranduil found himself wanting to unravel, despite how inadvisable that might be.

"My lord."

Thranduil looked at his subordinate, who bowed respectfully in the presence of her king, perhaps in an attempt to smooth over the fact that she had interrupted him without his leave. There were flecks of blood on her armour, both black and red, but she seemed relatively unharmed.

"What are your orders?" she asked, surely knowing better than to question why he was lingering in the old ruins instead of returning to take command.

Thranduil would have been unable to answer even if she had asked.

"Tend to our wounded. We will remain here until negotiations with Erebor have been concluded." Thranduil had little hope of Dáin being any more reasonable than Thorin, but there were still business they needed to address — gold that had been promised those in greater need than the Dwarves. The people of Lake-town had no army to support their claim, unless Thranduil lent them his.

His thoughts were inevitably drawn to the man reluctantly leading the mismatched gathering of refugees.

"Any word from the Bowman?" he asked.

"No, my lord. We have yet to confirm if Lord Bard survived the battle."

It took a moment for Thranduil to even fully grasp the words, and when he eventually did his heart seemed to falter. He had forgotten how paralysing fear was — how it could squeeze his chest until it was impossible to think, let alone breathe. It was many years since he had last been overwhelmed by dread, and it was unthinkable that he should fear now for a mere mortal.

Thranduil had felt urgency when searching for his son following the battle, but the fear had been less crushing, mainly because he had faith in Legolas' abilities.

Bard, on the other hand, had hardly been trained for war — not to mention that mortals were so awfully frail — and in a conflict such as this casualties were to be expected on all sides. The odds had never been in Bard's favour, but the news, or lack thereof, still took Thranduil by surprise. Thranduil had never even considered that Bard might not have survived. He had denied the very possibility, simply because he could not bear the thought.

And now he had to face that it was increasingly likely, for each minute he had yet to hear from the Dragonslayer. There were no fanfares for fallen bowmen, not like there would have been if Thranduil had been defeated. He was suddenly floating in uncertainty — not only concerning Bard's survival, but whether or not his own decisions during the battle had been the right ones.

If Bard had fallen it could very well have been after Thranduil had ordered his troops to pull out, leaving the people of Lake-town to fend for themselves against the Orcs. All it took was one stray arrow. One missed parry.

A life could so easily be lost, and Thranduil had not quite realised just how precious this particular one was to him, until he was told it might already have been extinguished.

If Bard had died, would it be Thranduil's fault?

"Send word to me when you have." Thranduil had always prided himself in maintaining control even when he felt nothing but turmoil within. This was worse than usual and he had to clench his hands to refrain from clearing his throat. "And once our wounded have been seen to, extend an offer to help the people of Lake-town, should they need it."

It was a given that they would, considering how few resources they had and the number of wounded that needed treatment. Many of them were not from the battle that had taken place today, but from the dragon's wrath. Thranduil, if anyone, knew how devastating dragon fire could be.

"Yes, my lord." She bowed again and waited a brief moment for further instructions, but once it became clear that she would receive none she turned to leave.

Thranduil watched her retreating figure before he turned to face the archway through which he could still see Tauriel and the dead Dwarf. Her tears were silent, yet held enough pain to make Thranduil's heart clench.

Such compassion was a foreign feeling, and one that startled him with its intensity. But maybe it could be attributed to the fear he felt, that he might have a reason to grieve for more than his fallen kinsmen before the day was over.

Bard should not matter to him, not to the extent that Thranduil felt his throat seize as he watched Tauriel mourn, but it was undeniable that he did. It was not love — Thranduil was not so foolish — but there was something he yearned for. Something in Bard's open, honest nature that drew him in, and Thranduil would hate to have lost it before he could experience it properly.

After one last look he turned away from his former captain of the guard, ready to shoulder command once more. It would, if nothing else, bring him news concerning Bard's fate much faster. Thranduil had allowed himself a moment of weakness, mourning the loss of his son, his wife, and love in all its forms, but he had duties to see to.

The war was won but so much had been lost. Several lives were still hanging in the balance; wounded from the battle and those that had not yet been confirmed dead or alive. His son was unharmed, for which Thranduil was infinitely grateful, but for the first time in a frightening number of years there was another whose well-being he found himself hoping for.

A simple bowman, who should by no means hold such significance to a king.

Thranduil would have considered himself foolish if not for the stark reminder of Tauriel's grief. The heart could not be swayed by logic — love and affection cared very little for reason — and he would do well to remember that, no matter how unlikely his attachment seemed at first glance.

There had to be a reason for why Bard seemed to shine so bright, if only Thranduil was brave enough to acknowledge it.

It was only when Thranduil received word that Bard still lived that he was able to relax. He was not in suspense for long, but he had been undeniably distracted nonetheless. The relief stayed with him as he listened to reports, issued orders, and sent for more supplies to be brought to Dale, both for his own armies and the people of Lake-town. It was not his obligation to do so, but he felt a need to help.

Thranduil was well aware that he made the decision because of Bard.

The losses were much greater than he had anticipated when he first set out, and it grieved him that he had been arrogant enough to dismiss Mithrandir's warnings and Bard's surprisingly sound advice. Bard might not call himself a king but he had the temperament of someone suitable for ruling, seeking other solutions than those that endangered his people.

When had Thranduil forgotten that? Had he ever been that kind of king?

His people followed him almost unconditionally, but for the first time in thousands of years Thranduil found himself questioning the finer points of his ruling — all because of one man. It was both frustrating and fascinating that anyone would have that kind of influence over him.

The day passed quickly with so much to be done. While feasts would no doubt be held to celebrate their victory, it was a relief that there would be none that night. There were too many wounded to tend to, funerals to plan, and practical issues to be addressed — more food and resources being but two of them.

Thranduil was well aware of the passing hours, as he was brought news from both the Dwarves and the people of Lake-town. He was reluctant to extend his offer of aid to the Dwarves, and was therefore quite pleased when it never seemed necessary. He would much rather help the refugees from Lake-town.

It was well after darkness had fallen that Bard entered the command tent. Thranduil drank in the sight of him, confirming what his messengers had told him with his own eyes.

Bard was unharmed, but Thranduil could see traces of exhaustion and weariness in the slope of his shoulders and the lines around his eyes and mouth. He had clearly only stopped long enough to wipe the blood away rather than wash it off, the stench of Orc almost overpowered the lingering bite of dragon fire.

It seemed as if Bard the Bowman had a habit of smelling like the foul creatures he had just slain. Thranduil could not deny that it was a strangely appealing.

He did not have a habit of appreciating smelly things — least of all mortals.

Appearing in front of a king in such a state as Bard did now could easily be taken as an insult — clothes dirty and torn, his hair coming undone from its fastening — but Thranduil knew that it was the complete opposite.

Bard must have been as busy as Thranduil, if not more so, seeing to his people and helping where needed. Bard was undoubtedly the kind of man who would not hesitate to do most of the work himself, further supported by the fact that his hands were the cleanest part of him. He had in all likelihood helped with the wounded.

The fact that Bard had opted against cleaning and changing his clothes was a compliment, in that he clearly found urgency to be more important. It was quite endearing that he refused to waste unnecessary time on rules and conventions he did not believe in. Bard was a commoner at heart and the things he did held a sincerity that Thranduil had yet to get used to, but found himself quite captivated by.

"My lord," Bard greeted with a respectful nod, standing on the other side of the table, much like the previous night. Bard's smile was polite, if somewhat strained. While it could be from the hours spent in battle, Thranduil was wise enough to know that he was also to blame, to a certain extent.

His actions the night before had caused the stiffening in Bard's posture and careful schooling of his usually expressive face. Thranduil regretted it, knowing that it was not the boldness or touch itself that had caused the reaction, but his dismissal afterwards. He had been so shocked by his own forwardness — with a _mortal_ , no less — that he had not realised how it must have seemed to Bard until he had already distanced himself.

And the distance remained, judging by the way Bard carried himself, lacking the ease and trust he had shown before. Thranduil had caused that rift, and though it had seemed reasonable at the time, he was less certain now. There were too many conflicting emotions, battling for attention.

"Master Bowman," Thranduil replied, inclining his head ever so slightly. "I am relieved to see you safe and whole." Surely there was no harm in admitting that much? It might sound like a formality — an expected and hollow show of politeness — yet Thranduil meant it, with far more conviction that he had thought possible. "I hope the same can be said for your children?"

If they were unwell the news would probably have shown on Bard's face, but Thranduil was fully prepared to prolong the conversation with whatever means necessary.

"Yes, they are shaken and exhausted, but otherwise unharmed." Bard seemed to perform a similar inventory as Thranduil had done of him, and must have found the result to his liking. Bard's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Your son?"

Thranduil swallowed involuntarily, gaze straying towards the documents on the table rather than the man standing on the opposite side of it.

"He survived the battle, but left shortly after."

Thranduil looked up at Bard who, despite his obvious confusion, must have understood not to press the issue further. Thranduil had no desire whatsoever to discuss Legolas at the moment, and least of all with a man who still had all of his three children with him. It would have been unnecessarily cruel.

Bard cleared his throat. "I came to convey our gratitude, for the help you offered with tending to our wounded. Many of them would have died without the aid of your healers."

Bard bowed, showing the proper respect to a king to whom he was indebted, yet Thranduil wanted nothing more than to reach out and make him straighten again. As much as he enjoyed watching people bow down to him — and he most certainly did — it was somehow less satisfying when Bard was the one doing it.

"We are allies, Master Bowman. It is customary to offer aid when such a deal has been struck," Thranduil replied, maintaining his usual level of indifference despite the emotions building inside him.

It was not until he saw Bard stiffen that Thranduil even realised how condescending his words had been. He had made it sound as if he had extended the offer of aid because it was required, not out of actual concern for Bard and his people. That might have been the case when he first arrived, but a lot of things had changed since then.

Bard would not meet his eyes.

"Of course, my lord, and the people of Lake-town hope to be able to repay your kindness as soon as we are able." The words were a formality rather than spoken from Bard's heart. They held none of the gratitude of mere seconds ago.

To think that something so small could affect Thranduil to such a degree. He loathed the flat quality of Bard's voice, so lacking its usual sincerity. When exactly had he given this mortal the power to sway his decisions and thoughts so easily? Thranduil was not usually so mindful of the discomfort he caused others.

"That will not be necessary." Thranduil wanted to mend the burned bridges, but he was unsure of how to go about it. Those he dealt with were usually of his own mentality — full of pride, self-assurance, and dignity — but Bard valued things such as honesty and fairness, which Thranduil was much less accustomed to offering. He softened his voice. "If our positions were reversed, you would never require repayment, would you?"

Bard looked up then, seemingly puzzled by the change in attitude.

"No, but as we have already established, you and I have very different ideals," Bard pointed out.

Thranduil let a smile grace his lips, small though it might be. "Maybe I have learned my lesson."

Bard's surprise was tangible, his eyes wide, soon replaced by something that could only be called bashfulness. The reaction was well worth the small admission of fault. It was quite a delight to watch the man who had fearlessly slain a dragon become stumped at what was essentially a convoluted compliment.

Thranduil revelled in it.

"Thank you, my lord." Whether Bard thanked him for the aid or the unmistakable attempt to soothe the insult was difficult to tell — it might have been both.

Thranduil's smile remained, surprising even him with how easy it felt.

"You should have a seat, Master Bowman," Thranduil offered, motioning towards the chair Bard had used on other occasions. "You look tired."

"Oh. Thank you, my lord, but I fear that I would fall asleep the minute I do," Bard said, his expression genuinely apologetic — and a tiny bit sheepish.

Thranduil's smile widened. "Which I would not hold against you," he assured, while reaching for one of the pitchers on the table, "yet _I_ fear that you will fall asleep standing."

He poured a goblet before holding it out towards Bard, who shook his head.

"Water, Master Bowman," Thranduil said, quite pleased to find that Bard had obviously been too busy staring at something else to notice the colour of the liquid Thranduil had been pouring. He could make an educated guess as to what that would be. Bard seemed unable to tear his gaze away from Thranduil's face, no matter if he was meeting his gaze or not.

"Oh." Bard seemed surprised, but accepted the goblet. "Thank you."

It had not passed Thranduil by that while he served only the finest wine Bard was clearly not impressed by it, often leaving his goblet untouched. For what reason Thranduil did not know, but he was willing to respect Bard's decision.

Thranduil reached for the other pitcher, pouring wine for himself.

"Have a seat, Bard. You have earned a moment or two to catch your breath."

Whether it was the use of Bard's name or the fact that he was too tired to argue was difficult to tell, but Thranduil could settle for either since Bard finally obeyed. He cringed as he took a seat, however, and the spike of concern Thranduil felt must have shown on his face.

"Merely sore," Bard assured, his smile crooked. "I am unaccustomed to fighting, especially for hours on end."

Mortals were surprisingly fragile for being so rough and robust, but Thranduil chose not to remark upon that. Instead he took a seat on his throne, angled towards Bard. Thranduil noted with some amusement that after the first sip Bard downed his water eagerly. He had obviously not thought to stop for food and drink before he visited.

Thranduil quite treasured the silence that settled between them, for how companionable it felt. Bard was clearly exhausted, leaning back in his chair as if his strength was waning, slowly but surely. It was tiring just watching him.

The night had fallen and with it most sounds had softened to a hush. There was a kind of stillness in the air that had settled now that the battle was fought and victories won. There was still much to be done and many lost lives to mourn, but for a couple of moments it seemed like Thranduil was able to offer enough peace for Bard to relax.

It was clearly far from enough, however.

"You should be resting," Thranduil said, eyeing the marks of strain on Bard's face.

"Soon," came the reply, which made Thranduil frown.

"You are of no use if you are at the brink of exhaustion, Master Bowman."

Bard let out a soft chuckle — a sound that held much more allure than Thranduil could ever have imagined.

"I liked it better when you called me Bard." That was probably one of those sentences that were never meant to be spoken aloud, and Thranduil enjoyed it all the more for it.

"Very well," he said with an almost teasing smile. "I suggest you get some sleep, Bard. You will have more than enough tasks to do in the morning, and you will perform significantly better if you are well-rested."

Bard sighed, but he looked relaxed — maybe even content.

"You might be right."

"I am fairly certain that I am." Thranduil nodded gracefully in response to the amused look Bard gave him, trying to keep his mirth from showing. "See to your children. Sleep," he urged.

When Bard hesitated to rise Thranduil did so instead, leaving his untouched wine on the small table next to his throne. With two steps he was close enough to reach out and pluck the goblet from Bard's grasp, before holding out his other hand.

"The rest can wait until tomorrow," he said, voice softer than he had intended.

Bard looked up at him, swallowing noticeably before glancing down at Thranduil's offered hand. It was an unnecessary gesture — Bard hardly needed assistance to rise from a chair — yet he only hesitated for a second before accepting, allowing Thranduil to help pull him to his feet.

Bard's fingers were rough against Thranduil's, hardened by years of labour, but they were also unexpectedly warm. Thranduil's skin seemed to burn under that touch, and it was difficult not to shiver in response.

Even when Bard stood steady on his feet Thranduil could not bear to let go of his hand. The feeling from the night before returned — the heady, breathless tension — and he wondered what would happen if he succumbed to it.

Would Bard allow Thranduil to touch him again? He looked as entranced as Thranduil felt.

At least until Bard averted his eyes with an unmistakable air of defeat. The sight almost made Thranduil frown; Bard had no reason to look so ashamed. Or had Thranduil's dismissal the night before been harsh enough that Bard had lost hope entirely?

That might very well be the case, considering how Bard offered a polite nod before moving away, clearly intent on leaving. It was unnerving just how much Thranduil missed the warmth of Bard's skin, once he lost it. Thranduil had half a mind to stop him, but quickly realised how foolish that would be.

What hope was there really?

Thranduil was unable to deny that he felt a certain amount of desire, but that was not nearly enough for him to abandon his own principles. Bard was mortal and seemed all too aware of the rift between them, both in terms of stature and race. He kept his eyes downcast, until the very last minute, when he offered Thranduil a smile that was tinged with sadness, so poorly hidden that it was painful to watch.

"Good night, my lord."

Thranduil remained firm, not allowing himself to waver. He could still feel the skin on his palm burn from Bard's warmth, but what difference did that make? They were too different.

"Sleep well, Bard."

As much as it would have grieved Thranduil to find that Bard had died in the battle, there was so very little hope for them. Despite this Thranduil's heart felt heavier the further away Bard stepped, eventually disappearing into the night, leaving Thranduil alone with an ache in his chest.

For once he felt no pride at having remained distanced from his emotions — only regret.

Perhaps he had some lessons yet to learn.

The following days were devoted to funerals for the fallen and feasts to celebrate their hard-earned victory. Negotiations concerning the treasure were postponed until Oakenshield and his kin had been laid to rest — a courtesy that Thranduil extended only because of the pointed look Bard had given him.

Thranduil had seen very little of the man since the evening after the battle, and that made him more amicable when they finally did meet. It would be wrong to say that Thranduil strived to please Bard, but he was more willing to listen than before.

If Bard noticed a difference he never spoke of it.

Fact was that Bard spoke very little, especially to Thranduil. It was not due to rudeness, but rather something more reminiscent of unease — which was fairly understandable, considering the tension between them. The fact that Bard's silence frustrated Thranduil to the point of sullenness was another matter entirely.

He missed the intriguing conversations, tinged with defiance and teasing. Those were not things he would usually enjoy, but their exchanges had been exciting despite their bluntness. Thranduil was more attached than he had allowed himself to admit. Perhaps it was because of Bard's sincerity, or how unyielding he remained even when facing opponents far more terrifying than him.

Either way, Bard held more significance to Thranduil than he had expected — or was entirely prepared to face. Desire was one thing, but attachment another. It was outright foolish to grow fond of someone who would die so soon.

If only it had been as easy to follow through as it was to reach the conclusion in question.

When the negotiations eventually commenced Bard was not bold or arrogant, but insisted on fairness and honesty — in contrast to Thranduil and Dáin, who fell back on their pride as easily as breathing. Bard's sincerity was quite endearing.

And his presence eased the tension somewhat, when he took on the role of mediator between two races adamant on hating each other. Thranduil had to admire Bard's patience, even if it did not pass him by how often the Bowman had to stifle an exasperated sigh. Thranduil might have made sure to be a little less hostile whenever that troubled, tired frown settled on Bard's face, but that was his secret to keep.

The meetings dragged on, mostly due to the Dwarves' reluctance to give Thranduil what he came for. On the other hand, Thranduil was in no real hurry to leave despite the approaching winter. He was enjoying Bard's company a little _too_ much, even if they rarely spoke to each other.

It was therefore a pleasant surprise when Bard stepped inside Thranduil's command tent on the second day of their negotiations, well before the Dwarves were set to arrive. With him he was carrying a medium-sized chest, and if the man's unexpected arrival had not piqued Thranduil's interest, the slight smile on Bard's lips certainly did.

"My lord Thranduil." Bard bowed his head before placing the chest — Dwarven, by the looks of it — on the table, his hand resting on the lid.

"Master Bowman," Thranduil replied. He rose from his throne, admittedly intrigued, and allowed his tone to show as much.

"I bring a gift, from the people of Lake-town. We hope that it repays our debt, and ensures a continued alliance with your kingdom," Bard said, gesturing towards the chest before taking a step back, clearly intending for Thranduil to inspect said gift.

It was wrong to say that Thranduil hesitated, but he did frown at Bard's words. Had he not made it clear that there was no need for payment? Curiosity won out, however, and he approached the table with measured steps. He could feel Bard's gaze as he reached out and opened the chest, not quite sure what to expect.

Not even his wildest guesses could have prepared him for what he saw: the white gems of Lasgalen — the very heirlooms he had gone to war for, and had yet to negotiate from the Dwarves' clutches. They shone like purest starlight against the dark velvet they rested upon, their beauty unsurpassed, and their value much higher than a mortal such as Bard could possibly fathom.

They were worth so much more than what Thranduil had offered in return.

"It seems that the Dwarves' reluctance to part with them was mainly due to spite," Bard said, his voice softer than usual.

"Is that so?" Thranduil was too shocked to say anything else, his gaze drifting from the gems to rest on the mortal who continued to surprise him, despite his supposed insignificance.

"I might have given them the impression that I wanted to keep them for myself." Bard's smile was amused, barely hiding the glint of mischief. "It appears that made them more inclined to hand them over, simply because they believed that they would not end up in your hands."

"And you proceed to ensure just that," Thranduil said, awed not only by Bard's cunning, but his generosity. Thranduil faced Bard more fully, swallowing the fondness that was threatening to overcome him. "I am most grateful, Bard, but the value of these gems greatly surpasses what I offered you and your people. It would hardly—"

"My lord," Bard interrupted, which was rude and uncommon enough that Thranduil stopped out of sheer surprise. Few dared to interrupt him, yet Bard seemed wholly unaware of that fact. "They demanded less of me than they ever would out of you, and it is not entirely unselfish on my part. Surviving this winter will be impossible without your aid, and a future alliance between us would hopefully benefit both our people. I would—" Bard swallowed, but found his words soon enough. "The people of Lake-town would be honoured to be considered your allies, not only in wartime, but during peace as well."

Thranduil felt his chest squeeze from tenderness — a sensation he had more or less forgotten over the years. Only Legolas had been able to inspire that kind of fondness in Thranduil as of late. It was without conscious thought that he drifted closer to Bard, the gems lying forgotten in their chest.

"Your sincerity knows no bounds, does it?" Thranduil asked, but barely waited for an answer before he continued. "You give me these priceless gems — heirlooms that have been lost to my people for centuries — and all you ask in return is an alliance?"

"Yes." Bard's voice wavered ever so slightly, but Thranduil suspected that it had more to do with their close proximity than the words they were speaking. "For the sake of my people and whoever is chosen to rule them."

"It will be you, Bard. You must see that." Thranduil's tone softened. "You will be crowned king."

Bard did not avert his eyes, and for the first time Thranduil took note of their actual colour. He had always assumed that they were brown, but saw now that they held brighter hints of green and grey. He wondered how he could have missed that.

"My request remains the same. Will you accept this gift, and in turn accept our— _my_ wish for an alliance?"

To think that a mere mortal could be so intriguing. Thranduil reached out, helpless against the pull he felt.

"The alliance is yours," he replied, just as his fingers brushed against the collar of Bard's coat.

Thranduil was so enthralled that he was surprised to feel those warm, calloused fingers wrap around his own, halting his movement. Bard's smile was pained.

"Thank you, my lord. I am very grateful for your generosity." Bard looked down, his head angled so that Thranduil was unable to meet his eyes, or glean much from his expression. Bard gently pushed Thranduil's hand back, until it was closer to resting against Thranduil's own chest. "I think it might be best if you do not repeat mistakes you so clearly regret — for both of our sakes."

It took a second for Thranduil to realise what mistake Bard was referring to.

"Maybe you are right..." Thranduil murmured, but he was far from convinced.

He might have considered his advances to be a mistake at the time they occurred, but so many things had changed since then. They had fought a war, he had feared for Bard's survival, and now he was given the gems he had coveted for years, but could not bear to look at them. They seemed inconsequential.

They were no longer what he wanted most of all.

Bard gave Thranduil's fingers a squeeze before letting go and taking a step back. There was a sadness and longing to him that made it difficult for Thranduil to breathe, yet he knew not how to set things right.

"I will return when it is time for the negotiations to begin." Bard's tone was monotonous. He took another step back, his expression unsettlingly blank.

Thranduil could not think of a reason good enough to ask him to stay, so he merely nodded and watched as Bard turned and walked away.

He could still feel the burning touch of Bard's skin against his own.

Bard's words felt not like rejection, but a statement of fact. Bard drew the line not because the advances were unwelcome, but because Thranduil had seemed to regret them the first time they had occurred. If anything Bard seemed to be demeaning himself, not Thranduil.

It was only when Thranduil's gaze strayed back to the gift that he realised the magnitude of what had just happened — what Bard had given him. It was selfless, no matter what Bard thought, and the act was so pure at its core that it shone brighter than the brilliant gems themselves.

Longing hit Thranduil hard, but it was not the priceless heirlooms he yearned for. It was something else entirely — something brought to light for the first time in thousands of years, by a mortal man who was far more intriguing and significant than Thranduil had ever thought possible.

Bard the Bowman was far more precious than a handful of gems, and so much easier to lose.

Everything was suddenly crystal clear, and Thranduil felt an unmistakable pang in his chest when he realised that it might already be too late.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil's POV is definitely one of the most enjoyable things I have ever written. He's just so gloriously arrogant.
> 
> Also, the majority of this chapter (and whatever comes after) is clearly my own inventions, since they didn't really tell us what happened to Bard or Thranduil after the battle. And if they add scenes of that in the extended edition, well, then I guess I'll just have to call this an AU.


	3. Peace

 

* * *

 

Bard was relieved once all the funerals and negotiations concluded, since that meant that he could focus his attention on the practical details of ensuring his people's survival. That task was much easier than trying to outwit royals who had a lot more practice in the art of ruling and diplomacy than he did.

It was increasingly obvious that Bard was the only one who clung to the notion that he ought not to be king. Everyone — including the Elves and Dwarves — already treated him as if he were the next ruler, in everything but how they referred to him. He was still Bard, Master Bowman, or the Dragonslayer, but the titles were spoken with the kind of respect and reverence given to kings and nobles. A coronation ceremony would clearly be nothing more than a formality.

Bard ended up accepting his new lot in life, if only because it was less straining on his nerves. Arguing seemed pointless, since people still came to him for advice and orders.

His days mostly involved making practical decisions concerning their supplies and preparations for winter, which was at least something he was good at. Many were still injured from the battle, but those who could work were tasked with making the ruins of Dale as habitable as possible. Returning to and rebuilding Lake-town would have to wait until spring — if they would even attempt such an endeavour.

Bard was kept busy for days following the battle; he barely saw his children and collapsed into exhausted sleep whenever he did have a few hours to spare. The situation calmed after the most pressing concerns had been taken care of, and while Bard was still asked to oversee or deliver new orders with considerable regularity, his new responsibilities became less nerve-wracking with time.

It would probably take years before he managed to rule with any kind of aplomb, but he supposed he governed with enough confidence not to seem entirely out of place. Bard had always had more conviction than pride, and it seemed like that could be beneficial in a situation like this.

Bard was so caught up in his other duties that he was entirely unprepared when King Thranduil came to see him. Bard was usually the one to visit the Elvenking, rather than the other way around, and he had in all honesty tried not to think of the Elf if he could help it. His attempts might have been embarrassingly unsuccessful — especially when he found himself alone — but he _had_ tried.

Bard felt awkward in King Thranduil's company, the tension between them difficult to overcome. Even so, Bard did not regret his decision to rebuff whatever advances King Thranduil had attempted to make when Bard had delivered his gift. He might personally crave the attention — the thought of those long, elegant fingers trailing along his skin still made him shiver — but he knew the futility of allowing such a thing to happen a second time. Especially since the outcome was bound to be the same.

He might not be as dignified as the Elvenking, but he had enough integrity to know where to draw the line.

It was still important to remain polite, however, especially since Bard had been entirely honest when he hoped for a continued alliance between Elves and Men. His own personal issues and yearnings were not significant enough to make him forget his responsibilities. So Bard resolved to meet the Elvenking with the required civility.

King Thranduil smiled when Bard walked to meet him on the square outside of the city hall. It was not a wide smile by any means, but surprisingly warm and friendly, considering the smiles the Elvenking usually offered. Bard tried to deny that his heart fluttered at the sight.

"My lord Thranduil," Bard greeted, nodding politely rather than bowing. They were on much more equal footing now, even if Bard had never sought the power and influence he had been given.

"Bard." A flicker of amusement flashed past in King Thranduil's eyes when he nodded in return.

Ever since Bard had unintentionally let slip that he preferred his given name, King Thranduil seemed to take much pleasure in using it. Not out of spite, but actual delight at the familiarity — and only when they were more or less in private.

People were passing them on the square, carrying out their duties and appointed tasks, but they all maintained a respectful distance. Bard was unaccustomed to being treated differently due to having a higher stature, but he welcomed the discretion it offered.

"How fare you and your people?" King Thranduil was calm and poised as ever, and Bard was surprised to note that there were no guards to accompany the Elvenking. Then again, the distance between Dale's city hall and the Elven camp was not that great, and King Thranduil was amongst allies.

Bard wanted to call them friends, but that might be too bold of him.

"We are well, under the circumstances," Bard replied, trying to curb his urge to step closer. It only made him feel foolish to yearn for something so unattainable. "Preparing for the winter will not be easy, but we do the best we can with what we have."

"I have sent for more supplies to be brought from Mirkwood. They will hopefully help you further," King Thranduil said, so calmly that it took a moment for Bard to fully grasp the meaning.

He paused, genuinely surprised by the offer. He knew better than to reject such generosity, however, especially now when they had been given their share of the treasure and could pay for whatever goods King Thranduil was willing to sell.

"Thank you, my lord," he said. "That is most appreciated and I will see to the proper payment once..." Bard trailed off at King Thranduil's slight frown. Such an expression was unusual for the Elvenking.

"I am not asking for payment, Master Bowman. We have agreed to an alliance, and you have offered me a gift of a value I am quite sure you will never be able to grasp. This is the least I can do."

Bard almost cringed at the use of his title rather than his name, knowing that he had unintentionally insulted the Elf. The curtness of the King Thranduil's tone proved it even further.

"I did not mean for you to feel obligated to—"

"No one makes me feel obligated to do _anything_ , Master Bowman," King Thranduil interrupted sharply. "The aid I offer is not out of duty or to indebt you to me. I thought we were beyond such things." Pale, blue eyes narrowed, but it seemed less threatening than Bard would have expected. "Or perhaps you think me incapable of kindness?"

Not long ago Bard would have been forced to say yes, but things had changed since then. And he had a hard time interpreting the look on King Thranduil's face as arrogance. He looked hurt, if anything, carefully hidden underneath a layer of coldness. Bard could admit that the flicker of vulnerability surprised him — King Thranduil seemed nigh untouchable — but if he had caused inadvertent harm, Bard knew that he had better attempt to soothe it.

"Of course not," Bard replied hastily, stepping closer to show his sincerity. "But can you blame me for not making assumptions? Last time you offered aid you saved our lives, but not without ulterior motives."

It was obvious that King Thranduil wanted to protest due to his pride, but in doing so he would have been forced to lie. In the end he gave Bard a look that was vaguely insulted, but acceding all the same.

"I have none this time, except to offer what help I can." King Thranduil sounded defensive.

Bard made sure to smile and placed a hand on King Thranduil's arm without thinking — an attempt to reassure. The fine fabrics of the Elven robes felt soft under Bard's fingertips.

"And I will humbly accept it, on my own behalf and that of my people." His smile grew fond, and gentler than he was aware. "Although I will insist on repaying you next time, or at the very least trade something in return."

King Thranduil's expression softened and the tenseness in his posture eased. Bard had a hard time deciding whether he saw it because he had learned to read the Elvenking better, or if King Thranduil was in fact showing more emotions than usual.

"I can accept those terms," the Elvenking replied, his melodious voice low — careful, almost.

Bard lost himself for a second, staring into those bright blue eyes. His heart was beating out a rapid tattoo in his chest and he knew that he should pull back. He was being far too obvious with how he gravitated closer, but the pull was difficult to fight when it left him with such a warm, comforting feeling.

Was it so bad to want to treasure that?

It was only when King Thranduil smiled that Bard became aware of how close they were standing, and that he still had his hand on the Elf's arm. King Thranduil had done nothing to show that the touch was unwelcome, but it seemed rather unwise to be so boldly familiar.

Bard carefully pulled back, missing the silky texture of King Thranduil's robes as soon as he had.

"Will you show me your plans for the city?" The tone made it sound as if King Thranduil was asking for something much more intimate than a tour of Dale.

Bard swallowed.

There was no stopping the subtle burn in his gut, even if he wished there had been. He should know better than to succumb to his yearnings, but the intensity in King Thranduil's gaze was awfully flattering. He looked like Bard was one of the most fascinating beings he had ever seen, which said a thing or two considering how long the Elvenking had been alive.

Bard was unsure of the meaning behind King Thranduil's attention, however. It could be mere curiosity, and expecting anything more was bound to lead to disappointment — or so Bard told himself.

He pushed those thoughts aside and decided to prioritise — it was best to heed a request made by a king. Bard might also be able to ask for advice from someone much more experienced in ruling than he was. Men and Elves might have different customs and build their cities differently, but some things had to be the same.

Not to mention that he was quite delighted that King Thranduil wanted to spend more time in his company. He tried not to think about why, refusing to allow his own enthusiasm and foolish hopes get ahead of him, but found himself unable to turn down the request.

"It would be my pleasure," Bard replied with a smile.

King Thranduil's expression clearly showed his satisfaction. Bard tried to tell himself that it meant nothing, but as they walked through Dale and King Thranduil never strayed from Bard's side — so close that they almost brushed against each other — it was difficult to remember.

It _did_ feel like their close proximity meant something, or at the very least could, if things had been different.

Not for the first time, or the last, Bard found himself wishing that they had been.

Bard found it difficult not to get attached to someone when he spoke to them more or less every day. Sometimes they met due to politics, but other times it seemed to be mostly because King Thranduil decided he wanted to. It was quite the compliment, and Bard allowed himself to appreciate the time they spent together, knowing it would not last forever — at least not for him.

The wizard and Hobbit had left long ago and the Dwarves were getting settled, but for some reason the Elves remained. Bard had asked King Thranduil why, but only received evasive replies in response. Winter had yet to turn harsh enough that the Elves had to leave, granted, but it still seemed somewhat impractical, since there was little left for them to do.

The majority of the army had already been sent back, from what Bard could gather, but the king seemed less interested in returning to Mirkwood. Bard was unsure what to believe, but he had to wonder if it was partly because of him. King Thranduil was most certainly not meeting with the Dwarves — at least not to the extent that he insisted on seeing Bard.

The Elves' delayed return was beneficial, of course, since they could begin to lay the foundations for future trading deals between their two kingdoms — but that could have been handled at a later time. King Thranduil seemed to linger with a particular purpose in mind, even if he refused to reveal what that might be. But the one he spent most of his time with outside of his own people was Bard.

That had to mean something, even if Bard tried not to assume too much. He could not afford to, what with his responsibilities and the rejection he had already suffered. He told himself that he knew better, and that the growing affection he felt was manageable.

He had never been a particularly good liar.

Bard was still drawn to King Thranduil, his gaze straying as often as his thoughts. He became more and more distracted in the Elf's company, and not only because of King Thranduil's obvious beauty. He held a timeless grace that suffused everything he did, and his strength and confidence was admirable, even tinged with arrogance as it was.

Bard felt it was understandable if he was captivated by a being as unique as the Elvenking.

He had not been able to forget how smooth those long fingers had felt against his own, either. Instead he found himself wondering if King Thranduil's skin was always that soft, embarrassed by his own boldness. That was not something he should be pondering, and nor should he allow himself to harbour the feelings he was so desperately trying to hide.

It might not be love, not yet at least, but he was awfully fond of King Thranduil, and often longed for the moments he would spend with him, however short they might be. The yearning he felt in his heart was impractical and doomed to cause him pain, but he was helpless to stop it.

There was only so much denial he could take before he succumbed to the truth.

Once King Thranduil had learned how to smile and speak with less arrogance — which he did more and more in Bard's presence — it was alarmingly easy to forget how hopeless such a love would be. King Thranduil treated him with a respect Bard was unsure he had earned, but that flattered him nonetheless. He knew that such regard was not given without good reason, or very often, for that matter.

King Thranduil's approval offered a kind of security that Bard had not sought, but found comforting all the same. For the first time in years he felt less alone. He loved his children dearly and would do anything for them, but it was not the same as having a wife or a companion to share his burdens with. For a long time he had been the sole provider and protector of his family, and to be able to let go of a small part of that — to ask for advice and aid, and be guaranteed support — was such a relief that it left him reeling at times.

Bard's people would not starve or be left defenceless, and he had King Thranduil to thank for that. It might not explain the slight skip in his heartbeat whenever they met, but it was at least understandable if he was grateful.

Bard realised that he had grown accustomed to seeing King Thranduil more or less every day, and maybe this was something to be considered out of the ordinary. It was hardly common practice to greet a king with a warm smile and words that were entirely too soft.

Or to feel an unmistakable sense of fondness when said king met one's children.

Tilda found Bard one day when he and King Thranduil were returning to the city hall after having inspected repairs on the wall. They were just at the edge of the square when Tilda wrapped her arms around Bard's waist and started talking, without even noticing that they had company. Bard's smile was fond and he was infinitely thankful that she could still show such cheerfulness, despite the war and their dire situation.

Bard stroked her hair, for a moment forgetting that King Thranduil stood a couple of steps away, calmly observing them. Tilda's excitement overshadowed everything else, filling Bard with enough joy and relief to make his shoulders slump.

He had seen far too little of his children lately.

A few moments later, Tilda became aware of their company, and once she did she fell silent, shyly pressing closer to Bard. It was an understandable reaction considering how intimidating King Thranduil could be — even more so to a small child. He looked regal and stern, in a way that Tilda was unaccustomed to.

Bard wrapped his arms around Tilda's shoulders before looking at King Thranduil, who had his head tilted to the side in curiosity. It was a strange expression to see on someone as dignified as the Elvenking, and Bard had to smile.

"My lord Thranduil, this is my youngest daughter, Tilda." He gave her a gentle nudge and after a nervous glance she pushed away from Bard, just enough to offer an unsteady curtsy. Bard placed his hand on her shoulder, smiling gently. "Tilda, this is Lord Thranduil, king of the Woodland Elves."

There was something akin to a smile playing on King Thranduil's lips, which was unusual in itself, but the softness in his eyes was what really took Bard's breath away.

"My Lady." King Thranduil offered Tilda a dignified nod, but there was a distinct gentleness to it that was both surprising and heart-warming. Tilda giggled and Bard did not fault her in the slightest — the Elvenking could be quite charming when he wanted to be. And most little girls would feel delighted at being treated like a princess.

Bard would have given a thankful smile, but King Thranduil was looking at Tilda, obviously quite taken with her. King Thranduil's fascination might not be so obvious to anyone but Bard, but that made it no less endearing.

Despite living such long lives, Elves seemed to have very few children.

"Tilda!"

Bard looked up and saw Sigrid on the other side of the square. She had a basket of laundry resting against one hip, and waved for Tilda to join her. Sigrid's smile was a little strained and she seemed hesitant to come closer, either because she didn't want to disturb or because she was too busy with her chores.

Bard felt guilty for putting such a burden on her much-too-young shoulders. Being the eldest, Sigrid had always handled a lot of the duties at home, taking care of both her siblings and father. Life had been difficult since his wife died and Bard wished he could have been able to ease Sigrid's load, but they were both carrying more than they could handle.

Sigrid, much like Bard, had only attempted to shoulder more after Smaug's attack.

Bard swallowed down his guilt and gave Tilda another nudge.

"Go help your sister." It was far from a solution, but he knew that it would help ease Sigrid's mind somewhat to have her little sister close. Sigrid worried more than the other two, even if she tried not to show it.

Tilda nodded and Bard leaned down to give her forehead a kiss. He looked longingly after her as she skipped across the square to Sigrid, who wrapped her free arm around Tilda's shoulder, tugging her along. Sigrid's smile offered Bard some relief, but his heart still ached for what his children had been forced to suffer through.

"Your eldest?" King Thranduil's voice was low and gentle.

Bard nodded, clearing his throat before glancing towards the Elvenking, just as his two daughters disappeared out of sight.

"Sigrid. My son Bain is two years younger."

"You love them very dearly." It was a statement rather than a question, and Bard raised an eyebrow at the look on King Thranduil's face. It was part fascination and part fondness. "I never doubted your devotion to your children, Bard, but it is wonderful to see it in person."

Bard felt a subtle wave of bashfulness, not quite sure how he was supposed to respond to such obvious praise. Loving his children was a given for him, and it had never occurred to him not to show it with every single one of his actions.

"I have wonderful children, and they are easy to love, trust me," was what he eventually chose to reply.

"I trust you." King Thranduil's smile was quite breathtaking, as if his words were not enough to make Bard speechless.

Bard's throat was dry when he swallowed, and he quickly averted his eyes. He was being pathetically obvious and barely managed to keep himself from twisting awkwardly.

A silence settled between them, lasting a lot longer than usual. It was King Thranduil who eventually broke it, and when he did his tone was almost apologetic.

"Winter is upon us."

Bard felt his heart sink. It was rather obvious what that meant, only confirmed by the look on King Thranduil's face.

"When will you be leaving?" Bard asked, careful to keep his voice stable. He did turn towards King Thranduil, though, as if seeking to prolong what little time they had left.

"Five days from now." The tone suggested that it was not something to look forward to, and Bard felt somewhat comforted by that fact.

He was not the only one who wanted this to last for as long as possible.

Bard looked down a moment or two before he managed a smile, even if it was weak and hardly worth the name. "Thank you, for everything you have done."

King Thranduil looked as poised as ever, but over the past couple of days he had also become unmistakably softer. It was difficult to pinpoint what was different, since his posture was still flawless and he had lost none of his grace, but it was there, in the curl of his lips and the increasing warmth in his eyes. Bard was fairly certain that it had to be his doing, if only because he was one of the few who were privileged to the much softer side of the Elvenking.

"I have not yet left," King Thranduil pointed out.

"I know," Bard replied, "but I doubt that I can ever say it enough."

For a second it looked like King Thranduil was inches from touching him, but eventually refrained, either because of the uncertainty of their situation, or because they were still in public. That was far too easy to forget in King Thranduil's presence. Bard tried not to feel disappointed, reminding himself that this was what he wanted.

He was still a terribly bad liar.

"In that case, you have another couple of days," King Thranduil said, voice low and awfully intimate.

The words made Bard's heart clench, because he knew that a couple of days would not be enough. He wanted so much more.

But that was clearly not his to have.

On the night before the Elves were set to return to Mirkwood, Bard was restless. The days had passed far too quickly and he had spent most of his time with his children or giving orders. He did not regret the former, but he would have wanted to see King Thranduil more than he had been able.

He knew that this would not be the last time they met — they had trading agreements and other negotiations to finalise — but it would probably be under widely different circumstances. Bard might very well be king by then, and he was not entirely sure how that would change their already complicated relationship.

Bard was pacing inside his appointed office, the crackling fire lending a soft orange glow to the room. It was located in the city hall and had recently been cleared of ashes and scorch marks, but a lot of the old books and furniture remained. Bard was still not sure who it had belonged to before the dragon attacked all those years ago, but it was vaguely unsettling to claim it as his own. It had been necessary, however, once it became obvious that people needed a place they knew to find him. Bard disliked it, but could also see the practical benefits.

Having an office was definitely useful this night, since it gave him a quiet, private place where he could let his anxiousness run free without fearing being seen. He wished he knew what to do — or what he wanted, for that matter.

It was still foolish to hope, but he could not deny that he did — especially when the opportunity might very well be slipping through his fingers.

King Thranduil had been careful not to make any advances, but Bard suspected that was mainly because he had put an end to them. And since he had, it was impossible to tell what the intentions behind them were. King Thranduil seemed to have regretted his actions the first time, but he had stayed in Dale after that, insisting on seeing Bard as often as possible.

That had to mean something.

Bard flinched at a knock on the door, abruptly pulled back to the present. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face, exhausted at the thought of his responsibilities. It was far too late at night for decision making.

With a heavy sigh he accepted his fate and went to open the door, freezing in place as soon as he saw who stood on the other side.

"My lord Thranduil." It was pure reflex by then, and was probably the only thing that saved him from looking completely out of wits.

"Bard."

He almost wanted to ask what King Thranduil was doing there so late at night, but that would have been awfully rude. The Elvenking looked very out of place in the dark, cold hallway, but no less regal for it.

"Come in," Bard hurried to add once he remembered his manners, stepping aside to allow King Thranduil to enter. The room was marginally warmer, so while Bard's heart was racing at the mere thought of being in such close proximity to King Thranduil, he would feel guilty for leaving him in the cold hallway.

King Thranduil moved with the same fluent grace as always, and Bard tried not to notice that sharp, crisp scent that he was becoming so fond of. Instead he closed the door while trying to calm his thundering heartbeat. His fingers itched to reach out and touch, but he might as well have been reaching for the moon.

"What can I do for you, my lord?" Bard asked, cringing slightly at the hoarseness of his own voice.

King Thranduil turned, observing him with his head tilted slightly to the side. He looked curious, but also slightly more tense than Bard had grown accustomed to.

"Will you always insist on calling me that?"

The question caught Bard by surprise and he hesitated a moment before answering.

"It is proper, is it not?"

He had learned that replying to a question with another question bought him time. Then again, that tactic probably worked better when not used against one of those who had taught him, be it unintentionally or otherwise.

"It is, but you usually have your own way of dealing with such things." King Thranduil turned towards him, after having let his gaze wander over the room. His hair shone like pure gold, his eyes flickering in the flames of the fire.

"I do not wish to be disrespectful," Bard said, swallowing as carefully as possible.

"But if I asked you not to use my title, would you?"

That kind of request had to be even rarer than King Thranduil's smiles. It required trust _and_ that the Elvenking saw Bard as his equal despite their different statures. Bard was both stunned and flattered.

"I—" Bard was unsure on how to finish the sentence, even more so when King Thranduil took two steps towards him.

"You asked me to call you by your name, so will you call me by mine?" It was far from a plea — someone like King Thranduil was no doubt incapable of pleading — but it was a request, and a lot softer than expected.

Bard was speechless, trying to push down the yearning rising inside of him. To agree would mean decreasing the distance between them — to put them as equals — and as tempted as Bard was, he was unsure if it was wise to do so. He could barely keep himself in check as it was, and the rift caused by their race and stature was one of the few things holding him back.

With that gone, what would happen?

But as he looked at King Thranduil's expression, he realised that he was not the only one who had something to lose. Bard had enjoyed seeing the gentler side of the notoriously ruthless Elvenking, but it was not until then that he even considered how terrifying that had to be for King Thranduil. With such a long lifespan, choosing to be cold and unapproachable was probably one of the few ways one could shield themselves from harm. To go against that — to leave oneself open and vulnerable — was a big risk.

King Thranduil had obviously taken that risk for him.

With that in mind, the answer was simple.

"Yes."

There was an almost imperceptible easing of Thranduil's shoulders. The silence was loaded rather than awkward. Bard found it difficult to breathe, the air thick in his lungs, despite being closer to chilly than warm.

"It is possible to travel during winter," Thranduil said, his voice deep and melodious as always. It sent a shiver down Bard's spine. "And spring is closer than one might think."

Bard's heart picked up its pace. No matter how he twisted and turned those words he could only come to one conclusion, which was that Thranduil was as reluctant to leave as Bard was to see him go.

"Aye, I suppose," he agreed, feeling the tension in his spine. He knew that they were approaching a tipping point, Thranduil's imminent departure pushing Bard to be much more impulsive than usual. It was dangerous but also undeniably thrilling. Bard cleared his throat. "Spring might come early."

Thranduil's smile was affectionate, to the point where Bard felt his heart miss a beat. There was so much fondness in that smile — as if Bard was someone of great importance to this amazing, timeless creature — and in that moment Bard felt his resolve crumble.

That warm look in Thranduil's eyes made enough want rush through Bard that he threw caution to the wind.

Three steps was all it took for him to approach Thranduil. Once there he reached out, cradled that beautiful face in his hands and pulled him in for a kiss. It was not hesitant in the slightest, and maybe just a tiny bit too urgent, but Bard was too caught up in the moment to regret it.

Thranduil's lips were just as soft as Bard had imagined. He had a difficult time placing the taste, however, which only made him more eager to seek it out. And maybe he would have, had he not noticed how stiff Thranduil was.

Bard pulled back, heart in his throat. The stunned look on Thranduil's face was understandable — Bard had failed to give much warning before he kissed him — but it also did not bode well. Bard felt a clench in his chest, a stumbling apology on the tip of his tongue as he began to move backwards.

Long, elegant fingers caught his hands, holding him in place. Bard barely dared to move, much less breathe, but when he looked into those pale blue eyes he saw nothing but amazement. Thranduil said nothing, his gaze unwavering. He looked reverent, as if Bard had performed some kind of miracle, or at the very least shown him something he had never thought he could have.

That look made Bard's breath catch, and for the first time in years he felt like someone special — as if he was maybe worth loving.

Thranduil carefully lowered their hands, giving him room to reach out in turn, his fingertips brushing against Bard's jaw. The touch was ever so soft, like a worshipping caress, and Bard leaned into it without thinking.

The smile that spread on Thranduil's lips was warm and intimate — meant for Bard alone.

When Thranduil leaned in for a second kiss Bard did not hesitate to meet it, shivering when those fingertips wandered further, past his ear to tangle into his hair. His own hands gripped Thranduil's expensive robes, pulling just enough to allow him to deepen the kiss. The sweetness made Bard's heart race, but something much fiercer was stirring in his chest, spreading like a wildfire through his veins. It was a delicious burn and he gladly succumbed to it.

Bard felt Thranduil's other hand join the first, the grip on his hair allowing Thranduil to angle the kiss to his liking. It was not until Bard bumped into the sturdy desk in the room that he even realised just how forceful the Elf could be. Not that Bard minded. Thranduil might look delicate and graceful, but he was unyielding as steel underneath.

Bard broke the kiss to catch his breath, his head spinning. When he opened his eyes he was greeted by Thranduil's smile — a pleasant, almost teasing smile, which made Bard want to grin.

"You are bold, Dragonslayer," Thranduil murmured, so soft that it was nothing more than a whisper against Bard's lips. "And quite fearless."

Bard did grin at that, quite pleased to see the heady look in Thranduil's eyes, knowing he was the one who broke through the cold, icy facade that the Elvenking had held on to for so long.

"You like it," Bard replied, voice pitched low to match the intimate stillness between them. The fire was still crackling in the fireplace, and gave the room a flickering, golden glow, which quite matched the curling sensations in Bard's gut.

"I do." Thranduil's words held enough conviction to give Bard pause. Gentle fingers wandered through his hair and Thranduil twirled a lock, as if exploring the texture. "You are quite incredible."

It was not the first time Thranduil had said that, but it was the first time Bard was willing to accept the compliment without arguing. There was too much sincerity in those low, melodious words for Bard to doubt them.

"But still mortal." Bard wanted to swallow the words back the moment he spoke them. He did not wish to remind King Thranduil, since it might very well make him regret the kisses they had shared, but not doing so would be inconsiderate.

And Thranduil did fall silent, a slight frown marring his otherwise flawless face.

"Yes, you are." There were too many intermingling emotions in Thranduil's voice for Bard to determine whether he was sad or regretful. Thranduil's exhale trembled ever so slightly. "I am very much aware of your mortality."

"Would it have been better if I were an Elf?" Bard asked, bracing himself for the reply.

They both knew that Thranduil would in all likelihood outlive Bard by thousands of years. Why would anyone — let alone the Elvenking — willingly subject themselves to the grief that would come from loving a mortal?

Thranduil waited only a second before he shook his head, leaning forward to gently touch his forehead against Bard's.

"No, not at all." Thranduil's smile was almost amused. "You are beautiful in your mortality — precious and irreplaceable. You will live for such a short span of years, yet you have already had such an impact." Thranduil sought and held Bard's gaze, the intensity making Bard's throat clench. "I would be a fool not to embrace this, for however long I am allowed to have it. Love should never be wasted or forgotten."

It was difficult to breathe, yet Bard managed a nod, his throat tight and heart racing. He could easily have argued the point, but the mere conviction with which Thranduil said the words made it pointless. Thranduil did not need to be protected; it was his decision to make.

And Bard could not deny that his heart soared. To be so cherished that Thranduil willingly embraced eventual heartbreak was no small thing. It meant that Bard was worth it, and that whatever they shared — no matter if it would last for months or centuries — was worth the risk.

Bard smiled fondly, relaxing his grip around Thranduil's robes, but not letting go.

"It is a good thing that you are no fool, then," he said, unmistakably teasing.

Amusement made Thranduil's usually cold eyes soft and affectionate.

"Indeed." Thranduil's fingers combed through Bard's hair, before he pulled him in for another kiss, this one chaste and achingly gentle. "I will return in the spring, at the latest."

That promise eased the tightness in Bard's chest, and made him smile as he nodded. Thranduil would leave at dawn, but they would see each other again. And in the meantime they could always correspond through letters.

"I will look forward to it." The words were spoken softly, holding several promises of their own.

And with that Bard tugged Thranduil in for another kiss, bold and searing to match the elation growing in his chest. He might not see Thranduil again for months, so he wanted to make sure to treasure what little time they had left. Thranduil obliged, clearly amused by Bard's enthusiasm.

Bard only deepened the kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I somehow manage to make myself feel really embarrassed when I read the scene where they kiss. I'm not entirely sure HOW or WHY — since I wrote the damned thing — but there you go. I hope you liked it, anyway!
> 
> There's a short epilogue left to post and you'll be getting that on Friday! See you then! <3


	4. Epilogue

 

* * *

 

Thranduil was able to visit Dale again in early spring. By then the bite of lingering frost was softened by the sun's warmth, but the trees had not yet bloomed. Thranduil had always enjoyed spring for the new birth it symbolised, but this one was particularly welcomed — for more than one reason.

The winter months had been easier than expected for Thranduil and his people, since the shadow that had settled over their home, centred at Dol Guldur, had finally been lifted. The spiders and other vile creatures retreated with it, and for the first time in years the forest were beginning to resemble the one which Thranduil remembered. He was still understandably wary, but dared to hope that his kingdom would once again be known as Greenwood, now that the darkness had been vanquished.

The second thing that made this spring particularly enjoyable was Bard. Several couriers had been sent back and forth between Dale and Thranduil's halls during the winter, but letters were hardly the same as seeing the man in person. Corresponding through letters might be practical when it came to sharing news and thoughts, but not very satisfying as far as closeness went.

A piece of parchment was not a sufficient substitute for Bard's smile or the warmth of his skin.

Thranduil was therefore uncharacteristically excited when he arrived in Dale with his guards, even if he was far too composed to allow those emotions to be shown on his face. The warmth in his eyes was impossible to hide, however, and he felt a small smile grow on his lips when he dismounted and turned to face Bard.

In the quiet of his own mind Thranduil had wondered if Bard would look older. He had so very little experience with mortals that it was difficult to know what to expect — how much a couple of months or a year could change. Not much at all in this case, it seemed, which Thranduil was secretly grateful for.

Bard had not yet been crowned king — it might still take a year or more for that, if the people wished to rebuild the city first — but his role as leader suited him, despite his initial reluctance. He held his head high, but there was softness in his eyes and an unmistakable fondness to his smile. Thranduil wanted to kiss him, but knew that it was better to wait until they were in private.

"Lord Bard." Thranduil inclined his head, careful to maintain a calm expression.

"My lord Thranduil." There was a hint of teasing to Bard's tone, as if he found the formality of their greeting amusing. It was probably only for the sake of their audience that Bard bothered with the stilted politeness, since they were well beyond that — at least behind closed doors.

Thranduil had to hold back an even wider smile.

"We, the people of Dale, are very honoured by your visit, King Thranduil," Bard continued, bowing his head, mischief sparkling in his eyes, "and will do our utmost to make this a pleasurable stay for you."

The words were given a whole new meaning by the tone Bard used.

It was a testament to Thranduil's self-control that he remained perfectly composed, despite the flare of desire urging him to grab a hold of Bard's collar and pull him in for a kiss. It seemed that Bard the Bowman had a wicked side — one that Thranduil would very much like to explore further, at a more appropriate time and place.

"Your hospitality is most appreciated," Thranduil replied.

"Allow me to give you a tour of what we have managed to rebuild so far," Bard offered with a gesture towards the surrounding city. "Dale looks much different from last time you visited."

Thranduil already knew about the repairs and restorations, since Bard had explained about them in his letters. Just like he had told of how his children fared, and the dealings of the Dwarves of Erebor. Thranduil had shared news of his own — what little he knew of Legolas' journey, choosing a new captain of the guard, and how the woods of Mirkwood were becoming bright and green once again. Even so, it was a formality best dealt with, and Thranduil was genuinely interested in seeing the progress with his own eyes.

His patience could extend that far.

Bard spoke more than usual as they walked the streets of Dale, now cleared of the signs of the battle as well as the old rubble from Smaug's attack. Some scars remained, and buildings gaped empty and broken, but Thranduil could see life and hope as well. Spring had only just begun but the people of Dale were already hard at work, rebuilding the city out of the ashes the dragon had left behind.

It would take years before Dale was restored to even a fraction of its former glory, but the work that had been done so far was admirable. The basics were prioritised — water, food, and shelter — and sooner or later the city would flourish once more, especially if both the Dwarves of Erebor and Elves of Mirkwood were willing to offer goods for trading.

Thranduil was impressed by the people's resilience, even if he had always considered mortals to be frail and weak. It was the man at his side that had changed his opinion, single-handedly and without even trying.

If Thranduil was impressed by the people of Dale, he was in awe of Bard the Dragonslayer.

Although Bard was certainly not without his insecurities.

The tour ended in the very same room where they had kissed the first time. Bard held most of his meetings there, Thranduil knew. It was also where Bard read his correspondence, and no doubt wrote the letters he had sent to Mirkwood.

Thranduil's fingertips wandered along the heavy, robust desk, smiling at the thought. Bard had very little love for a ruler's administrative duties, which had been stated plainly in his letters. But he was a responsible and determined man, and Thranduil knew that Bard's sense of duty made him brave through even the most boring of tasks. It was quite endearing.

The sound of the door closing made Thranduil look up. Bard was lingering indecisively, his back pressed against the wood, but it looked more like uncertainty than discomfort. The light-hearted smile from mere moments ago was nowhere to be seen and Thranduil could not help feeling a clench of dread.

He turned to face Bard more fully, tilting his head to the side.

"You fear that I have changed my mind," he said. It was written plainly across Bard's face and the tight line of his shoulders.

Bard's gaze flickered, confirming Thranduil's suspicions.

"The thought has crossed my mind," Bard agreed. He stepped closer, back straight despite the apprehension in his eyes. "Have you?"

There was both strength and bravery in those words, despite the obvious vulnerability. Thranduil admired Bard's determination, and how he was fearless, even in times of weakness.

"No," Thranduil replied, allowing a smile this time, "I have not changed my mind. The winter may have been long, but if anything it only made me want this more."

He held out his hand and Bard did not hesitate to take it. Warm fingers wrapped around Thranduil's and he carefully pulled Bard closer, until he could see the flecks of grey and green in Bard's eyes. The smell of dragon fire had since long faded, and in its place was something that made Thranduil think of the sun — bright, warm, and full of life.

"Have _you_ changed your mind, Dragonslayer?" Thranduil asked in return, raising his other hand to let it run along Bard's jaw. He was still fascinated by the feel of Bard's beard against his fingertips. It tickled in the most unusual way.

Bard smiled, slowly shaking his head. "No. Never."

Thranduil leaned forward, erasing the last couple of inches between them, and pressed a soft kiss against Bard's lips. It was a chaste kiss, given to seal a promise. Thranduil could still feel the burn of excitement, simply for having Bard close to him after months apart.

Bard was smiling when they parted, his expression relaxed and content. His fingers twirled a lock of Thranduil's hair, almost on their own accord, before he looked up, meeting Thranduil's gaze.

"I want to introduce you to my children, properly this time." It was not quite a demand, but not a question either.

Thranduil had no objections. He had heard much about Bard's children during the past couple of months, and he was looking forward to meeting them in person. The feeling was foreign to him — children were not all that common amongst the Elves — but certainly not unwelcome. It was one of the things that made Bard so fascinating to him.

"Of course," he replied with a nod.

If Thranduil had any doubts about his choices they were silenced in that moment, when Bard smiled, free of the aches and weight he had carried during the war. His happiness was almost tangible, and Thranduil was left breathless from the knowledge that he had caused it.

He had thought himself incapable of offering that kind of joy, but he was glad to have been proven wrong. So many things had changed in such a short span of time, but rather than fighting, Thranduil chose to embrace it. This time change was for the better and he could not help wondering what more lessons he would learn with Bard at his side.

He looked forward to finding out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! I hope you enjoyed my sudden foray into the Barduil ship! I might return for a Modern AU at some point, but I can't make any promises. I can't deny that I would LOVE to write Thranduil again, though. It was such a pleasure <3
> 
> [CarpeDentum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CarpeDentum) and [surgicalstainless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/surgicalstainless) betaed — thanks to you both — and this here is my [Tumblr](http://amethystinawrites.tumblr.com).
> 
> Take care, lovelies! <3


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